


préowthwíl

by Salamander



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Community: ff_land, Drabbles, F/M, M/M, Multi, Necrohol of Nabudis, dirty dirty threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:59:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamander/pseuds/Salamander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some moments dwindle like fireflies, brief but flaring bright in a memory forever. Ashe's relationship with Vossler and Basch is more complex than she is ever willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	préowthwíl

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the "5Ws" short fiction contest over on ff_land, wherein the 5Ws are who, what, where, when and why. Naturally, I focused on FFXII (the idea started with the "where" which was an obvious choice of the Necrohol of Nabudis for me, no one is shocked), and even more naturally I went for my Chivalry OT3 :D
> 
> The titles for each section are in Old English, which I thought was fitting for the Ivalician setting.

**when** // ǽrest 

She cherishes this memory like a pressed Galbana lily, keeping it close to her heart and unspoken, for fear of what? Losing it, or perhaps ridicule: they danced, but it was a dance of blades and grace. She had wanted him long, then; his collar a signifier of his status, her ownership and their dances tangled in her thoughts until she could stand it no longer. 

Her fingers tangled in his hair, cropped short for convenience and coal-black against the bright desert. His collar was hard against her fingertips, and the smell of leather enough to conjure heat even now.

 

 **who** // asce 

The lessons are engrained deep into her soul, and they will be that way forever. Every night she dances with her blade under the moon – sand flies under her nimble feet and her breathing shudders in her ears like a heartbeat. 

Ashe treasures the deep aches her practice brings, even though they fade with the morning light and their long journey until they are ghosts in her bones. 

Some days, it is the only time she feels herself again; clutching shield and steel, forming and reforming and she can perform these steps in her sleep, but still she dances.

 

 **where** // gástlic 

It lies empty now, and cold. Her touch upon damp-clad walls is the first human touch for two lonely years, and the heat of her fingers is soon leached. She thinks of Rasler, could swear she sees the ghost of him toddle past, but when she investigates it is flooded, and Mist prevails. 

Is it a snatch of song she hears, turning a corner and then another? A solitary hymn, perhaps, or a slow-cadence nursery rhyme. 

She wonders if the lingering ghosts were distant relatives and shudders. Basch's arms wrap around her, and for a time she is warm again.

 

 **what** // anginn 

Basch's hands on her and Vossler's hands on him until she doesn't know where she ends and they begin. It feels as if they have been tangling like this for an age, all movement and breathy moans and arched backs. 

Vossler curses low and rough as Basch pushes into him. Ashe's head hits the wall as the movement sends Vossler deeper inside her. She clutches at his shoulders as they begin to rock, delicious and slow. She feels every movement with a clarity that surprises her, and it makes their climax all the sharper as they shudder into focus together.

 

 **why** // gerád 

There had never been any use in asking Ashe about the nature of their relationship. She would look away, jaw stiffening and her silence oppressive until the question was dropped. 

What she never said was this: Basch was her guardian, her steadfast, and he never wavered. He fetched her husband back from the battlefield for her – a gift beyond selflessness. 

Vossler's lessons stayed in her heart long after his betrayal; he gave her something to hold on to, and made her a stronger woman. Without them, she would not be herself. A simple truth, but it was her own.

 

 **when** // æfterweard 

After, she swears she hears him call her name; sees his mane of blonde out of the corner of her eye and it reminds her of Necrohol ghosts flitting through corridors. 

She remembers him at the strangest of times – the whiff of steel, a slightly discordant clang of the armour she imagines as a part of him now, a voice whose gruffness sounds precious familiar at first but turns into something mundane. She feels like she is running mad; at night, the strain of holding herself taut as a spring unwinds a little as she allows herself to breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting research I found out during writing this fic: the Necrohol of Nabudis was previously the home palace of Rasler and his family, which I think adds an even more tragic air to the whole place. JUST LET ME LIVE THERE ALREADY, GODDD.


End file.
